Surfacing
by ArtisticRainey
Summary: Through no fault of their own, International Rescue is too late to save a life. Alan struggles to cope with their first 'failure'.


The rain was thunderous on the day the dream ended. It sluiced in sheets down the wide, gleaming windows. The darkness that had rolled in with the storm was a perfect reflection of the turmoil within his heart. Alan, sitting on the floor, pressed his cheek against the icy glass and traced patterns in the fog of his breath. They had failed. The dream was over.

It has started like any other rescue. The excitement of the journey combined with the jubilation of impending success. Why would he have felt any different? There had been a horrific explosion in central Nairobi that had toppled buildings as if they were made of sand. A group of scientists had been working in an underground research facility. Most made it out but one was trapped, too slow in her flight to safety. She was trapped behind three thick, steely doors as the others fled. Routine stuff, really. Scott to co-ordinate, with Alan and Virgil manning the oxyhydnite cutters. Simple.

At least, it should have been simple. Everything was going well. They were hurrying as best they could. John was in contact with the woman trapped inside, and relayed to them that she was getting more and more terrified despite John's constant assurances that International Rescue operatives were on their way. Alan had been confident that they would get there in time. He remembered his off-hand comment to John. _Just tell her to take it easy,_ he had said. _We're nearly there_. And they had been nearly there.

The air began to vibrate with something other than the storm, and Alan closed his eyes to the sight of Thunderbird Three blasting off in spite of the weather. No thunderstorm would stop the mighty red craft as it spiralled up into the sky. He didn't want to look at it. He didn't want to think about it. Alan's hand slid down the window as he squeezed his eyes tighter, beads of water budding at his eyelashes. He should have been on that ship, but instead Scott was taking his tour of duty. He couldn't. Simply couldn't. Not after everything.

They had been so close. The guttural boom of the second to last door was echoing through the corridor as John's harried cry had pierced over the comm. _Guys, hurry! Hurry! She's going to –_

The sound was unmistakable. Alan had looked at Scott. He knew his brother's pale face was a mirror of his own. They said nothing, but shared the same thought. _She couldn't have_… The static of the comm was the loudest sound apart from the sputter of oxyhydnite as they felled the last door. Alan's heart had hammered against his ribcage as the door came down.

There was a crimson arc of blood cascading from the gaping hole in the side of the woman's head. The offending weapon had scattered across the floor. Nearby control panels were spotted with blood, scalp and brain.

They were too late.

"Johnny…" Scott whispered.

Static.

The rest was a blur. Scott had taken control, always the pillar of strength. Alan had switched to autopilot. They found a back board and a blanket in a First Aid cupboard. They gently lifted the woman onto it. Alan could not forget those eyes, huge and chocolate brown, forever imprinted with a desperate, terrified act.

They carried her out, two unexpected pallbearers, and when they emerged from the building there were no cheers of jubilation. There was silence. Radio static.

The next thing Alan remembered was being bundled into Thunderbird Two. When they returned to base he had went to his room, keyed the lock code, and hadn't left since. Every possible tactic had been used to try to coax him out, from food to threats to pleading. Nothing worked. Nothing could reach him. He was stone. The dream was over. International Rescue had failed.

Pain cloyed at his neck, constricting his throat until he could not draw breath. His words echoed back to him, growing louder and louder with each repetition. _Just tell her to take it easy._ _We're nearly there_.

Alan pulled away from the window and buried his head between his knees, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs. Those words… His flippancy… That terrified woman… Fresh torrents of tears flooded his cheeks as the storm outside raged, and the sound of Thunderbird Three was swallowed by the maelstrom.

"Alan? Alan?"

Alan fought against the rising tide of consciousness as the voice penetrated his dreams, or lack thereof. For the first time since that rescue he hadn't dreamt of the terrified woman, of the shining, vicious gun or of the sharp puncture of the gunshot through the air. The voice was persistent, and would not yield. Alan found himself being dragged through the quagmire of his unconscious mind and surfaced to the cold pain of reality.

He opened his eyes to a dark sky and the absence of rain. He dug his fingers into the pile of the carpet and closed his eyes again. _Just leave me alone…_

"Alan? For Christ's sake, just open the damn door."

His eyes snapped open again. Never before had he heard that particular voice use that particular tone. He sat up as the door to his room slid open.

"Hey," Alan said, a flush of temper rising to his drawn face, "how did you get past the lock."

John stopped in his tracks and planted his hands on his hips. The door hissed as it shut again.

"I studied electronics at Harvard, Alan," he said. "It's not difficult to bypass a standard door code."

"Well, you still have no right to come barging in here when I've made it clear I want to be alone."

"You forgot to add the part about wanting to be left alone so you can wallow in your own self-pity."

Alan flinched as his brother's words landed like knives, each syllable a deep, piercing stab into his psyche.

"How dare you!" Alan said. "What the hell has got into you?"

"What the hell has got into _you_?" John asked. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to this family?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Alan said, almost wincing at the petulant edge to his words.

"Of course you don't," John snapped. "You've been languishing in here for days."

Anger rose in fiery tendrils as Alan scrambled to his feet, clenching his fists so hard his nails were driven into his palms. John tilted his chin up and crossed his arms. Alan shook his head in disbelief at the aggression of his usually soft-spoken brother.

"You are a complete asshole, John," Alan said. "Everyone else has had the respect to leave me be, and you are the last person I would have expected to treat me this way. Gordon, maybe – but never you!"

It was John's turn to shake his head and he snorted a curt laugh.

"Clearly no one else has the balls to call you on your B.S.," he said, "but I do."

Alan's shoulders heaved as he struggled to keep his temper in check. The stress and fear of recent events was already simmering just beneath the surface. He had locked himself away to keep it all inside, to keep it to himself and not inflict his suffering on the others. No one but Scott could understand the dark, sable images of self-inflicted death that threatened to choke him. His oldest brother seemed to have accepted events with a stony, stoic nature akin to a war hero's. However, that wasn't Alan. Alan wasn't Scott, and could never hope to be.

"B.S.?" Alan asked. He raised one fist. "I ought to knock you flat on your ass for that comment."

"Oh yeah?" John said. "Well, go ahead. Come on." He waved Alan towards him. "Let's go, Boy. If you want a fight you've got one."

Alan closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. In… Out…

"What, are you chicken or something?"

His eyes flew open. The red-hot magma of his soul boiled over. He charged.

He collided with the sturdy frame of his older brother and was momentarily surprised at how he didn't knock John flat to the floor. There was strength and poise behind his brother's lithe frame, and instead of easy victory Alan found himself struggling. He landed a few hard blows, but before long he found his face pressed into the carpet and his arms locked and twisted behind his back. He had failed.

Again.

There was nothing he could do to stop it. Deep, guttural sobs emerged from his chest, one after the other as an unplumbed well of despair was finally penetrated. Torrents of pain washed over him, and he was released from the lock and instead enveloped in the embrace of the John he had always known.

"We were too late, John!" he sobbed. "We were too late. She killed herself. And I said she should just take it easy. She must have been so scared. I didn't even see it. I didn't even think about it."

Alan tried to escape from his brother's arms, but John's grip was too strong. He was like a pillar of granite standing in the sea of Alan's despair, withstanding wave after wave of desolation without wavering.

It seemed like forever before the storm in Alan's heart had quieted, and he wiped his nose on the edge of his sleeve. His eyes were burning, but the weight on his shoulders was lessened. It all became clear. He pulled away from John and shook his head.

"This was your plan all along," he said.

John shifted back towards the window and leaned against it, shrugging his shoulders.

"Perhaps…" he said. "I couldn't let you wallow any longer. Everyone is really worried."

"I…" Alan's words failed him. What could he say?

John crossed his arms across his chest. He tilted his head to the side. His usually so-carefully styled coif had spilled across his forehead and there were several purple bruises sprouting on his cheekbones. Alan frowned and gestured to his brother's face.

"Sorry about that."

"It wasn't your fault," John said.

"Well, it really was," Alan said. "I did punch you."

John shook his head.

"That wasn't what I meant."

Alan paused as the weight of his real meaning became clear. His mouth formed a quiet 'o'.

"You did everything you could. She just couldn't hold on. Don't blame yourself." His voice became painfully quiet. "There was nothing we could do."

Thoughts clicked together like cogs in Alan's mind and he looked carefully at John, narrowing his eyes.

"You heard it, didn't you?" he asked. "Not just the gunshot, but…her fear."

"I was the only witness to her last moment," John said, nodding. "That…is not something I want to go through again."

The brothers sat in silence for a time, breathing slowly and imbibing silent understanding.

"How do we get back to where we were?" Alan said eventually.

"It's simple," John said. "We don't."

"Then what do we do?" Alan asked.

John closed his eyes and let out long breath.

"'Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.' That's from William Churchill," he said. "We just have to keep going."

Alan reflected upon his brother's words for a few moments. He regarded John's pale face and its reflection in the glass. Beyond it, the moon was creeping out from behind the remnants of the storm clouds.

"How are we going to explain your bruises?" he asked.

John shrugged.

"Believe me, Alan. No one is going to be looking at me. They're just going to be glad you're back with them again."

Alan stood up and held a hand out to John, who accepted it gladly.

"Well, let's go," Alan said. As they approached the door, he paused and regarded the lock's key panel. "I'm going to have to change my key code," he said.

"You'll have to do a lot more than that to keep me out of your life, Alan," John said.

Alan grinned, and stepped back into the main villa.


End file.
